Obsessions
by JuliTina
Summary: An intake on the characters in Count Cain, and what obsessions they have.
1. Cain

People ask me why I adore poisons.

'Such a dangerous hobby!' they exclaim, the women fanning their selves hurriedly, and the men pretending to sound unaffected. They hope to persuade me from my 'interests', dainty women all seeking to be my husband, only afraid of my poisons. The men aren't much better, afraid to be my enemy, for the fear of my elixirs. I see what they are; the simpering little wretches…and I don't trust any of them.

They all struggle to converse with me, because they simply have no idea on what it is that makes me Count Hargreaves. So they use the rumours that surround me, and they try to interest me in by striking what they think is the closest to my heart. Only, their plans backfire because they have next to no knowledge on what a poison actually is, and I find it ridiculous. It's _insulting_.

The upper class of society have little idea on the subtlety of poisons and its uses, and they just cannot comprehend the complexity of the liquid known as 'Poison'.

After all, poison can be an incredibly loose term.

There are so many poisons out in the world, from plants to drugs, and many have yet to be discovered. Where as society looks upon arts as being beautiful hobbies that inspire imagination, such as music and sculpting, I look upon my poison making as something that even surpasses myself. I love my poisons, especially the ones I have made myself. Morbidly, they could also be called my children.

I snicker at the thought.

Combining two poisons is as simple as mixing…lets say fire and water, or at least, complete opposites. Never sure of the results, you don't know what will accept or reject each other, and the overall effects can indeed be questionable.

There you go; rodents do actually have a use in this world after all.

Riff frowns upon my poison making, but he never says anything. He occasionally helps me clear away, always with a small crease between his eyebrows, and his blue eyes narrowed in contemplation. But he doesn't realise that poisons are plentiful in this world…anything can be a poison, absolutely anything.

For example, sugar can deadly if given excessively, and it seems to raise the heart rate extremely quickly. Only, I couldn't be sure because my test subjects were rather small, and the amounts of sugar I subjected to them far surpassed their body volume…twice over.

…I really must try salt sometime…

I must also mention that to Riff, it would be amusing to watch him ulcer over the fact that even sugar (without arsenic) can kill. Only, I must find a way to increase its concentration, to think, my father _could _have been able to kill me.

Yet, it fascinates me to see people die excruciating deaths, just with the uncapping of a vial and a tilt to the hand. To see drops of what could become your very life-blood slowly infect you, and eat you inside out. Not that I've ever used one of those 'special' poisons on anyone, I think I have just enough humanity left within me to feel _guilty_.

No one really knows how I feel about my elixirs, because if they found out, the first thing they'd do would be to ship me off to the nearest mental ward. I don't tell Riff because he would just worry more, and I feel that he already knows the reasons for my obsession.

And again and again, my answer lies within religion, within the God that cursed me at birth.

He might be able to control people's life spans; he can send them illnesses and fevers. But doctors and medicine are all improving, learning more and more about illnesses, and introducing newer cures and different solutions. But through poisons, there is something definite, something sure about the fact that they _will_ die, with the added spasms and pain. There is only one cure for one poison, and only the maker can create the antidote.

I think I should be flattered by the way people call me the 'Poison Count'. My dark hair and cursed eyes all tell my own story, from my lineage to where I am now. I am glad that people are afraid, and I will abuse my power until it bleeds.

And in a way, I use these poisons to be God, to try and copy what he can do with a single thought. 

He cast me away the moment I was born; it's only fair I take his name…and make God…myself.

~end

AN: . Anyone else think it's a little boring with just Cain and poison? Please tell me if it is.

Sorry about the comment with rodents…^^'' But apart from that, it is rather Ooc. I'd imagine that this could take place after Alexis's death, and before he met Merryweather-I think he lightens up somewhat after he meets his sister. CC will be worshiped as usual.


	2. Rebecca

AN: Because I received such fantastic reviews from everyone, I continued this. Although CC is really really appreciated-the idea is fantastic (thanks very much RekiaReium)-but it didn't turn out the way I wanted to on paper.  
  
...........................  
  
Do you like dolls?  
  
I do. I love my dolls.  
  
My dolls are the best; better than yours, and better than anyone else's, because they're _real_. Bet you can't beat that.  
  
My dolls­ are always pretty, and they're always the best because they don't talk. I can choose my people, and the nurse makes them into my dolls so we can be together forever. I can do whatever I want...and the thing is, they're here, _alive_, warm in my grasp. But they don't talk. And they don't make fun.  
  
They'll never leave me again.  
  
Not like father...  
  
But I made sure mother stayed...I made her mine. _Mine.  
_  
You see, mother always hated the way I looked. I looked like _him_, the bastard they called my father, and she hated me for being his. And I could tell she wanted me to suffer, to have the same fate as hers; a lonely bitch of a spinster, shamed to stay in the mansion whilst society gossiped.  
  
She locked me away and shattered my leg. She took away my friends and told me to play with my dolls like a good girl should. And I hated her for it...  
  
...At first.  
  
I grew to realise that dolls were better than real people, because you could make them do whatever you wanted. They didn't argue, but I missed warmth. I missed the feel of real skin and the sight of bright eyes. I wanted to entomb those things to make them last forever...and so ideas began to form.  
  
Why should I be locked away in a lonely house? Why me? Why should I have no friends and why did people always. make. fun? I only had dolls, but I wanted revenge; I wanted to lock away those people in houses of wax and make them suffer as well.  
  
My dolls were always mine...and so what made more sense than to make my very own doll? And I used mother, and I made sure she suffered just as much as _me_. ­She became my first project, and I watched her­­ beg, smiled as she cried sightless tears when her body was slowly paralyzed, and laughed when she was unable to scream as I encased her body with wax.  
  
And I had control.  
  
I had maximum power over mother and it was an addiction.  
  
I _loved_ it, because finally, mother didn't have a scowl on her face. For the first time, she looked lifeless but I knew she was crying, and I knew she hated me.   
  
But the fact still remained; she was mine.  
  
Mine to play with, and mine to punish. And she was no more than a puppet, worth nothing to the outside world.­  
  
My precious dolls were controlled by me, and I could dress and make them into pretty little things like the puppets they were. Because they stayed still. And they didn't move. I owned them, and they had nothing against me. Nothing to blame, nothing to say; they didn't age, they didn't grow...perfect toys who had no thoughts of their own because I wouldn't let them.  
  
Ageless, _immortal_ dolls that didn't grow bitter and angry at people because they were better. I had my friends again, and I would be there for them...to celebrate and play with them at my will.  
  
Because for the first time in my life, I had something worth owning.  
  
They were my friends.  
  
_Mine.   
_  
fin 


	3. Jezebel

Now, now, what do we have here?

I have been sorting out my collection again. Father says I have enough specimens already, but somehow, it just doesn't seem enough. No matter what I do, my collection is not complete, because I am lacking _something_. I finger the glass jars lightly, and the cloudy liquid inside stirs, the copper blue mixture settling to the bottom.

A pair of preciouseyes stares back at me, from inside the murky depths. If I look deep enough, I can see the shuttered gaze of betrayal, still lingering like rotten decay around the two balls. It must have been an old conquest, I decide. Only a woman would hold such a persistent grudge; even when dead.

And with both eyes and entrails gouged out.

Similarly, another image flashes into my mind, this time, pupils of sin, ringed irises tainted with green and gold. The eyes in front of me lose their appeal, and my grip tightens. The glass cracks, and for a long time, I just stare into space.

I know why my collection is not complete.

I am missing _him_.

Liquid seeps through the cracks, and onto my hand. It trickles, drips, until nothing is left apart from glass shards and the decaying eyes. Oddly enough, my hands are warm…until I see the copper lifeblood seep down my arm. Oh how I want to cut again, to feel the gristle and tendons breaking under my slice of the knife. To feel the joy of squelching muscle underneath my fingertips.

…But lately, that has become dull.

Dull in comparison of those damn glitter green eyes, speckles of gold which are unmatched by any currently known colour. Unworthy of even been compared to the notorious Count Hargreaves…and how I will enjoy watching his eventual demise, his downfall, spiralling slowly into my hands.

And then I can't be blamed for what I do.

In my opinion, Art is painted, with every brush stroke. The body is Art, and so it deserves to be sliced with every knife stroke. Cain is the very epitome of a canvas, and this particular canvas is just begging to be painted red.

And how sweet it will be, my final masterpiece. There will be no brother to compete with, and no distraction for father, and I will have my very own pair of demon eyes, and my very own demon. I will have a pale, living corpse…for Cain will never be _just_ a corpse.

­Because what I want isn't revenge. This has nothing to do with a petty feud between father, son, and step-son.

Because what I want is Cain.

I want his pretty eyes and his pretty face staring at me from these jars, forever locked; forever fresh, frozen in eternity.

And finally, my collection would be complete.

…………………………………

AN: Wishy washy Jezebel, with his usual twistedness. Would body parts or Cain be his obsession? Not quite sure...and help with the next chapter? Please? I have no idea who to do next, apart from Merryweather and her Zodiac cards...but you can see I'm getting desperate. XP I'm not very pleased with this chapter, but hey, it's an update at least. CC is appreciated.


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